Dove
by Litt
Summary: Teen Titans in a chocolate covered nutshell. Series of vignettes focusing on the five main Titans, based on prompts taken from the wrappers of Dove chocolate hearts.
1. List

**Dove  
**Litt

**--**

**List**

_Make a list of your dreams._

There are two main types of dreams; he won't admit to having either of them.

-

She had thought, once, that it was too much to carry hope along, so she'd dropped it before it could let her down; she thinks back on her nightmares and decodes them with a book.

-

Disjointed events from all over time—smiling faces, flashes of color, odd distortions of voices—and no one to tell them to but a witch, a robot, an alien, and a colorblind leader; they are all his fallen and reborn wishes embodied so he thinks they don't need to hear it aloud.

-

Dreaming is a new phrase, a new concept, for her, and she is not sure whether the glaring fragments that flit through her tired mind or the hazy wishes she flinches at during the day are what they'd call dreams; she doesn't ask, not wanting to know the difference.

-

A screen, a disk, a storage box, and a coded analyzer keep his memories safe, but they are not a part of him at night and so he cannot feel satisfied when tweaking them to peculiarity makes them almost like they'd been when he was growing up; he is always relieved to be awake.

--

**AN**: The first of the series I wrote with a solid format. _Dove_ chocolates, I discovered, have cute little quotes in their wrappers; for whatever reason, I noted them all and saved them on a document. Months later, I used them as prompts and the random fandom I zeroed in on happened to star our Titans. So far, I have only elaborated on four of them. Played with Robin's denial; Raven's self-searching; BB's darker, brokenhearted side; Star's awkwardness; Cy's all-around defensiveness: this carries throughout the series.


	2. Heart

**Dove  
**Litt

**--**

**Heart**

_Discover how much your heart can hold._

(no limit to amount)  
5,500 quarts of pulsing liquid, 71 milliliters per beat, 5 liters per minute; 62,000 miles of intertwining veins and arteries; 2 ounces of 80-proof something 3 times a week; just enough adrenaline to cause an attack.

--

(definitive emissions)  
A thousand broken promises; pages of secrets; innumerable wishes, smiles, impulses, scars, excuses, light; so many mistakes; a minimum amount of lessons; pieces, too many pieces.

--

(corresponding frequencies)  
As much of a person as can be had and compressed, sacrificed; just a bit of unattainable peace; a few untamed beasts; sincerity; jumbles of questions; just a few hits, just a few, before it'll break.

--

(effect)  
Faces, four or seven; unrestrained passion that won't be stunted; lengths taken, not calculated; "blood" that burns; so many beats that don't stop or seep through, that no one hears.

--

(prior experience)  
Much more than it used to, than it would have had to before; extra jolts of electricity; inhuman amounts of pressure; disturbing amounts of extra tubing; clinging wires; just enough of everything to mar its original composition; four chips to keep it beating, even when it should stop.

**--**

**AN**: This was the one I wrote without much thought; it came out so fitting I was surprised when I looked back on it. I don't mean I didn't have to research—because I did, and it was very interesting; not interesting enough for me to double check-- or figure out which phrases matched, just that when it came to figuring out the core of each piece it was fun. Though it was themed after Valentine candies, this was surprisingly dark. The first phrase for each was taken from my Chemistry homework; I remember looking down at the page and picking out random things that I thought defined each.


	3. Whisper

**Dove  
**Litt

**--**

**Whisper**

_Whisper in the dark._

It takes too many bruises, from too many self-inflicted punches and kicks, for him to realize it and just a few more to make him say it aloud.

His voice is nearly gone by then, a raspy snarl hanging on to the edge of his throat, and he has to push a little, a lot, to pull them past the swelling tongue and split lip (that may as well not be his,) and that push takes too much out of him. The words, the truth, take too much out of him, but they may as well have died in his mouth (like so many other coppery things,) as it comes out in a whisper for no one but a phantom to hear.

---

Sometimes she forgets her reasons for caution; sometimes, when she forgets her purpose, (her role,) and allows herself to fall into recklessness, she voices her loneliness.

Like all things, she deals with this in moderation. Not too much indulging, not too much reveling in her own self-pity, goes into these meandering or, most likely, critically brusque mumblings, for she still fears the loss of self (and sometime she whispers about this too).

---

One word, one name, one sigh before sleep or unconsciousness claims him.

It will always be her face, her smirk, her hair, and it will always be that name he sighs in his sleep. Strangely, he doesn't dream about her anymore, doesn't (wake up in a cold sweat or with a desperate need; he doesn't) even take much note of when it became a mechanical thing, when grief had turned to routine and had lost all sympathetic connotations, because that had been a dark time. It's (always) dark now, and it will always be that name.

---

A litany of familiar words, her first language—her mother tongue—escape her when the days are through and it is all she can do to keep them quiet by timing it to this hour at night.

Though it has been an adventure learning her adopted language, and though the times when corrections are needed have faded over the years, there is still a comfort of knowing she can explain (to at least the shadows) how wonderful and sad this world has become without so many stumbling words. There are more words in her new one and sometimes there is no room for cross-referencing; there are familiar, distant mutterings for blaringly obvious things (her friends will never understand). She can always explain the day's events to herself in a roll of sound the others can't decipher and the shadows of her room are always there to listen.

---

Before, it had been a prayer or a song that he'd mutter before the night took him; now, it isn't and he's not sure if it ever will be again.

He had shed his religion just as rashly as he'd shed his older life, without much blame or accusation, but with just that extra vehemence to make others wonder. He can't pray and he saves the songs for the day, for the sometimes-too-long outings and missions, when he can hear himself. There were times when the assurance of a bump in the night (or a snore from another room) would confirm his humanity, his closeness, but he doesn't have that (–even that—) anymore. He has to make all the noise he can before he plugs in; he'll only allow himself to make them softly, just like the rest of his curses.

**AN**: I wrote this near the time I wrote "Baby Fat" but probably before, so I feel a bit uncomfortable knowing I've pegged my Robin as a masochist (I use the term "self-inflicted" a lot with him) but it fit too well to let go. Since it was focused on words this was the hardest to be comfortable about. There was a set pattern by the time I got to this prompt and the community (Forbidden Love) I posted it at then made a guessing game out of figuring out who I was talking about. They were amazingly thorough in analyzing everything. Beast boy's were my favorite to read by this point, with Cyborg a close second; Star's was my hardest to write period with Raven being kie Raven and Robin always came too easy, so easy I kept trying to figure out if I was missing something.


End file.
